


Peril

by rainer76



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-14
Updated: 2015-08-14
Packaged: 2018-04-14 14:39:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4568262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainer76/pseuds/rainer76





	Peril

It's professional curiosity.

Solo was eighteen when he joined the army, ten weeks of boot camp and by the time he set foot in the European theatre the war was practically over. He puts his hand up and volunteers to stay, fluent in German, Italian, passable in Russian, the Axis prisoners need to be processed, interrogated - their secrets told - and the higher ups nod their heads and agree sagely, it's good to see such dedication, they say. Solo is not a good soldier. He prefers wine, cheese, the priceless art of Europe over the mosquitos, the kamikaze pilots of the pacific. His regiment is redeployed to Iwo Jima one week later, and Solo stays on in Europe, under a temperate sky and the first gentle summer of the year.

He is a good listener, a shrewd judge of character, and above all else, a purveyor of antiquities. His mother always said he had itchy fingers, an eye for detail, the sketched outline of beautiful things.

It is professional curiosity because for a solid decade Solo was the greatest art thief the world had ever seen - and post war Europe was a shambles, where things moved, were easily redirected, in between. Sleight of hand was his method of choice, conflict the last resort, and in this cratered wasteland of bombs and dissipating smoke, of new borders carved out, Solo became the stuff of legend, wanted by twelve nations and counting. One step to the left and three moves ahead, following orders was never his forte. 

It's professional curiosity because Solo is not the type to telegraph his moves. Because he's never had anyone dodge a bullet before Solo could pull the trigger. Its professional curiosity because Solo's always been bent towards things he shouldn't have, and on top of that it's an insult to be predictable, to be within a hairbreadth of a mission failure. He calls Illya inhuman, the Peril, he calls him the Cold War, the shadow at his heel. He watches the man tear the trunk off his car and refuses to pull the trigger through the back windscreen, because it's not sporting, and because at his heart, Solo covets art in all of its fluid forms. Peril he says, smooth as an endearment, barbed with irony, the twist of his double entendre tumbling over Russian indifference. A quickie he says - in and out and forget about it in the morning - and he can't help the cast of his regard, to see the way Illya reacts, the cut of his cheekbone and the pull in his shoulders, the slow curve of his mouth. Bodily perfection is as inhuman as any cut stone, as remote as Michaelangelo's David, merciless as a Siberian winter, and Solo feels the threat of Illya's presence as a visceral thrill. He wants to steal him away. I know your kind, Victoria will demure, hiding in plain sight, and under all your charm, hubris, afraid to be exposed for what you are. Solo's not. Not afraid. Not satisfied. Not the type to walk away. He does his research, knows the value of a long con, he learns the history, and sees the striations for what they are, a Russian mother who was a sniper and war hero, a father seven years dead in a gulag, unbeknownst to Illya; and Oleg, who took an interest in the rage and anger and knew how to carve from stone. Peril, Solo thinks, and remembers dragging Illya from the water, pressed together on a scooter and the chilled lines of him. Peril, Solo imagines, and feels his breath hitch, the drumbeat of his heart, and tosses the watch before Illya can follow Oleg's final order.


End file.
